It’s satisfying. It clears the air. And damn it–it feels good.
No, I don’t have a reason. Okay, yeah, I do, but it’s not a good one (is there a good reason to throw a tantrum?) and it’s not something anyone but me can do anything about. So I kept it a fairly mild fit. I stomped around a bit, I swore, I called the dog names and I bitched that three people should not be creating so damned many dirty dishes while I washed them. I smoked a cigarette (oops, I was trying not to do that), and then–I realized there’s no one in the apartment downstairs.
My kickbag enjoyed the attention. And I feel much better now.
Keen provoked my fit, naturally. Well–Luc and Rafe, actually, Keen wasn’t even there at the time, and that was part of the problem. Taro and Rafe just swooped in and tried to hijack my story. Keen abdicated because he doesn’t much give a damn, and Luc couldn’t stand up to them on his own. Taro and Rafe together can be very overwhelming. *g*
So I stomped around a bit, I growled and swore and kicked things (one thing) and I got back to work. I re-wrote my elements for Luc, and I swore and went on the porch and thought and smoked again (damn it) and I realized I needed an ending for Rafe before I could write much farther in Keen.
Then I swore a LOT more. Rafe has been unfinished for over a year and a half, not because I haven’t been trying to get it done.
Despite all the fit-throwing, tonight the total is 28,076 words. 800 words in the middle of a temper tantrum, not bad at all. I’m happy to report that Bly understands the shifting moods of a genius lost in her art and did not kick me for being an obnoxious twit.